


The Flame

by junistsantiago



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junistsantiago/pseuds/junistsantiago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set roughly two years after the season three finale, Arya is sent across the Shivering Sea by the Hound, where she encounters nights full of many different terrors: the Red Waste, a priestess out of Asshai, and an old flame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Among the Red

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making it all up as I go along. Hopefully, I'll finish this before season four comes out, and then the canon of season four won't even matter. One can hope. I will probably work and rework the first few chapters until I'm satisfied with it. What you're reading now might not be what you read tomorrow. I'll change the summaries and add character tags, relationship tags, and archive warnings as I go along, so try not to be too alarmed. Honestly, who knows where I'll end up with this thing.

  
_"Beautiful faces, no cares in this world where a girl loves a boy, and a boy loves a girl."_   
La Isla Bonita, Madonna   


Arya Stark was struggling to breathe.

The horse she'd taken from a Dothraki camp in the night, foolishly and carelessly, was dragging along beneath her. She didn't know its name, nor would she ever, but it had done its best to stay upright. Now, it fell to its knees and Arya Stark toppled with it. She was so very far from home, she thought, but a woman grown. She had seen blood and battle, and she had lost her family . . . her blood family _and_ the family she'd made along the way. She hadn't seen Hot Pie or Gendry in over two years, though not a day went by where she didn't think of them both at least once. She had left the Hound some months prior, crying as he pushed her tiny boat into the open and vast Shivering Sea, his heavy feet dug deep into the soil despite how frozen it had been at Widow's Watch. Arya was alone but for the captain-turned-drunk hired by the Hound to keep the boat from crashing among the rocks. He had held her while she screamed and tried to overturn the boat so she could swim back to the Hound, but soon, the big man and his burnt face had vanished from sight. The captain's sole charge was to make sure that Arya's feet touched the soil of the Free Cities, but he'd toppled overboard halfway across and his wine gave way to the waves. Arya had gotten there herself. She didn't know if the Hound was still alive, only that he would have died to protect her, just like her father or Robb or Jon Snow, and that made him family.

She had been lost in the Red Waste for days and had come across no more camps, Dothraki or otherwise. She'd eaten her last piece of dried meat the day before, given the last handful of nuts to the horse, and now she tipped the last of the water into her mouth. Her lips were, briefly, grateful for the moisture, but in the end, it only made her want more. She was too weak to move from the sand where the horse had dumped her, even though the sun was beating down on her, roasting her in her clothes. Already the horse had stopped moving, and Arya suspected that it had already died. She had few possessions with her, not wanting to attract attention to herself in the Free Cities. She had the clothes on her back, the strange coin given to her by a long lost love, and a ring bearing the Clegane sigil. It had fit the Hound's pinky snugly; it fit her middle finger somewhat loosely. Not among her possessions: a map, and she should have known better than to listen to some half-blind fortune teller's vague directions on how to get to Braavos.

It seemed a shame to die this way, alone in the Red Waste, after all that she had been through: the journeying north and south and every which way; getting across the Shivering Sea despite the rocks and the storms and what she had sworn was a sea monster. Once she was in the Free Cities, she'd dodged plenty of looters and thieves and rapers, vicious Dothraki, spying eyes that she feared weren't friendly. She had only been wandering for a few days before she knew who to stay away from and who was trustworthy, and she'd come to the conclusion that she should stay away from everyone and trust nobody. The Hound had told her one thing as he pushed her into the water: "If you find the Targaryen bitch, fall down on both knees and pray she doesn't hold any hatred towards your father," but Arya didn't like the idea of falling down on her knees in front of anybody, nor did she think any gods, old or new, would protect her here. The heat was fierce, there were enemies around every corner, and her clothes were stuck to her skin; even the Hound's ring, which had always threatened to slip off her finger, was stuck firmly in place. When she moved it, she found that it had left an outline on her finger in the shape of three dogs. She smiled. She would not die alone after all.

Arya Stark reached into her pocket and withdrew the coin. "Valar morghulis," she whispered. "All men must die."

"Sweet girl," a voice said, somehow both far away and very near. "You are not a man."

The sun burned brightly in Arya's eyes but something blocked it from her view, the outline of a man whose hair was red and white, a man who bore the first face of the man that she had loved. Arya was sure it was a mirage. Perhaps it should have surprised her that he would be the last thing her tired and delusional mind conjured up. She had expected it would be her father's image, or Robb with Grey Wind standing proudly by his side, or her mother, or Sansa with beautiful needlework, or Gendry and Hot Pie, or Jon Snow, or Syrio Forel telling her that fear cuts deeper than swords. But instead, it was Jaqen H'ghar, and that was somehow not surprising at all.

There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him, this mirage of Jaqen H'ghar, and she started with the thing she'd wanted to say the very instant he'd faded from her sight all those years ago: "I should have gone with you when you offered to take me to Braavos."

Jaqen smiled. "A girl does not trust a man with a new face. A man understands."

"But your face seems so familiar to me now," Arya said, and she wanted to reach her hand up and touch his cheek but she could not find the strength to do so.

"Many years have passed," Jaqen said. "Can a man not return to what he once was, for his friends?"

Arya seemed to disregard his attempt at comfort and familiarity, or perhaps she did not hear. "Do you have any water?"

"A man has nothing, Arya Stark."

And then Jaqen H'ghar was gone.


	2. Illusions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for any and all kudos and comments that you dear ones left on my brief first chapter. I feel the need to reiterate that I'm making events (and probably some characters) up as I go along. I probably mucked up backstory from the show because I have the worst memory, which will undoubtedly cause me to return to earlier chapters and edit like a madman. I will ruin everything you love, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

A sea of stars, twinkling in the deep darkness, greeted Arya Stark when she first opened her eyes. It was her immediate belief, however foolish, that the sun had taken her last drop of life and whisked her to whatever afterlife the gods had in store for her. The stars were even making music, a quiet and steady tinkling, as if bells were ringing in the heavens . . .

She was suddenly aware of the way her feet weren't touching the ground. She was floating. But then all of her aches and pains returned to her, and her terrible thirst returned to her, and her lips were cracked and her skin was peeling, and she was so hot even though a dark blanket had blotted out the blazing sun. "Help," she whispered, and when she received no response from the jingling stars, she licked her lips with a sandpaper tongue and said, as loudly as she could, "Please." Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion that dragged her off of the horse, or perhaps some part of her was overcome with fright at the concept that she had been taken by people by which she didn't wish to be taken; perhaps it was because she had attempted to look and see what the source of the jingling was. Regardless of the reason, Arya slipped off the horse and cascaded to the ground. She didn't even brace herself for the impact, nor did she seem to realize that she hadn't landed on the rough and harsh grit of the sand, but rather the soft pillow of grass that she had sprinted through after she'd stolen a horse. Arya's first thought should have been one of terror, but her hazy mind could still not comprehend the situation, did not acknowledge fully the dark Dothraki eyes peering down at her, could not discern whether they were concerned or scrutinous. She just whispered the same phrase over and over again: "Valar morghulis."

"Jhogo," a voice called. It was feminine, sweet and gentle, like a breeze flowing through a field on a summer day, like the warmth of Winterfell's great castle after Arya had been running around outside and her fingers were nearly frozen. Like honey. Like the lazily blinking stars. "Who is that? What did you find?"

"It's a girl, khaleesi," came another voice, this one gruffer, battle-worn. Another face appeared in Arya's line of sight, one very familiar, but Arya was not dragged from her reverie. The man had enough surprise in his voice for both of them. "Seven hells."

"What is it, Ser Barristan?" The girl knelt over Arya, forehead wrinkled with worry, and she brushed a soft palm across Arya's burnt forehead. "What is she saying?" She tried to push her fingers through Arya's hair, the most maternal thing Dany could think to do. For so long, she had been a mother of three dragons, and they did not have long, brunette hair that she could play with. They did not seek comfort from her in the way that a child might, but Dany had never gotten the opportunity to try her hand at a human child. Not really. Arya's hair was caked with sand and dried dirt, however, and Dany's fingers quickly became tangled. Selmy had a look of hopelessness on his face, and Dany leaned forward, pressing her ear close to Arya's lips to hear the words. "'All men must die,'" Dany said, pulling back. "Come, Ser Barristan. Let's get her inside. She needs water and a hot bath."

Selmy struggled to his feet, his armor weighing him down. Dany had told him already that he didn't need to wear it when they made camp for the evening, but he, much like Jorah and Daario, were incredibly stubborn when it came to the protection of their queen, even with the large dragons and the massive army of loyal and free people. As he and Jhogo carried Arya inside, Dany caught Selmy's eyes and saw the look of concern that seemed to be permanently etched into his features.

"What is wrong, Ser Barristan? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"Rightly so, as I'm sure I have," Selmy said, and once Arya was laid upon soft cushions and being tended to, he launched into the story of his past, most of which Dany already knew. She didn't, however, know about the majority of the events surrounding what came _after_ Selmy's dismissal from the Kingsguard. She knew what happened to him, of course, but not about Arya having been lost by the Lannisters, nor her sister being held captive. The most she knew of House Stark was that Eddard Stark had been instrumental in overthrowing the Targaryens; that he had been beheaded as a traitor by Joffrey Baratheon; that his son, Robb Stark, had crowned himself King in the North; and that someone had done a short job of him, and his mother, as well. She had known, however vaguely, that Sansa Stark existed and was set to be wed to Joffrey Baratheon, but once news reached the Free Cities that he had turned around and wed a Tyrell, and that Robb Stark was dead, Dany had pushed any and all thoughts of the Starks from her mind. Now she was being told that the half-dead girl resting in her tent was the youngest Stark daughter and that, up until that very moment, Barristan Selmy had believed she, too, was dead. Somehow, at the same time, Dany felt excited but also that she was in some potential danger.

"She's no threat," Selmy assured her. "How she wound up here is a mystery to me, although if someone had sent a Stark as an assassin, I'm sure she would have found an easier way to get to us . . . one that didn't involve being found nearly dead by a Dothraki several miles into the Red Waste. Besides, the Starks have too much honor. Whatever else people say he was, I saw with my own eyes that Ned Stark was a just and loyal man. Certain things were done to either protect his family or to protect the realm. I think he knew, khaleesi, that being Hand of the King would be his undoing. But it was his duty to the realm."

"Would he have done it, Ser Barristan, had he known that it would lead to his death?"

"I don't think Ned Stark cared one way or the other about his own death . . . but I believe he would have refused Robert Baratheon, regardless of his status as king or old friend, if he had known it would lead to the death of his wife and child."

Arya was only half-listening to the conversation, although had she been awake, it would have been difficult for her to remain quiet, not to interrupt and interject and defend the honor of her family, even when no defending was to be had. Dany was turning things over in her own mind. She realized that the girl laying on the cushions couldn't harm her, at least not at the moment; she was too dehydrated and sunburnt. Missandei had refilled the goblet several times while Dany and Selmy conversed, and each time, the Stark girl downed the liquid and rasped for more. She couldn't have been very much younger than Dany, and she suddenly felt an overwhelming sorrow for the girl. Dany may have been the only person in all of the living world who knew exactly how Arya Stark felt.

"Ser Barristan, leave us. I'm sure Lady Stark would prefer to bathe without the company of men." Dany rose from her own cushion and crossed the short distance to where Missandei sat, tipping water into Arya's open mouth. She sat near Arya and began to take off her shoes and her clothes, and Missandei helped as soon as Arya was finished drinking. Arya had never much enjoyed taking her clothes off around people, yet she found herself eager to get out of them. Less weight, less dirt, and more air. Dany had to peel some of the fabric away from Arya's skin and Arya gave out sharp cries of alarm and pain as strips of leather had burnt to her skin. Missandei returned with a blunted knife and began to peel the leather away while Dany gripped Arya's hand in her own. Arya squeezed, hard, and found that she could not continue to scream. Her throat was too dry. She focused, instead, on the girl.

"Who are you?" she asked, licking her lips in a failed attempt to keep them from feeling dry. Tears stung at the corners of her eyes from the pain, but she willed them not to fall. She enjoyed crying in front of people even less than she enjoyed being nude around them, and she also feared that the salt would sting her cheeks. 

The woman with white hair passed her another goblet of water, using her free hand to tip the liquid into Arya's mouth. "I am Daenerys Targaryen." She smiled softly. "I'll spare you all of my titles."

A soft laugh left Arya's lips in spite of the pain. It was just her luck, she thought, to have found the one person that the Hound insinuated could be a danger to her. And yet, the woman hardly seemed to be. She was soft-spoken, with kind eyes and a gentle touch. How could this woman cause anybody harm? Arya let the two women lift her from the cushions and carry her over to a basin filled with steaming water. It burnt Arya's skin as she stepped in, but she was eager for the dirt to be gone, for movement to return to her stiff joints, and also for her bare skin to no longer be as exposed.

"Lady Stark was my mother," Arya said, once she had settled down into the water. "Just call me Arya. Are you going to kill me?"

A sudden burst of spritely laughter left Dany's lips. "No. What in the seven kingdoms would make you believe I would kill you? I believe you may be of some help to me, if you wish to help me."

"I'm a Stark," Arya said. "I was told to watch out for you, just in case you still hold some hatred for my father." 

Dany sat on a cushion beside the tub. She waved a hand and dismissed Missandei, waiting until she was safely outside and out of earshot before continuing. "Well, I can assure you of one thing. However I felt towards your father, that time is now over. I do not hold resentment towards those who have passed on from this life and into the next." She paused, waiting for a response from Arya. When she got none, she added, "You may call me Dany, if it makes you feel more comfortable." Arya opened one eye to peer over at the woman, wondering if it made her feel uncomfortable. 

"It was a name reserved for my brother," Dany continued, "and most others use one of my many titles."

"You didn't tell me them," Arya said. "I can't use them if you don't tell me them. What do you need help with?"

Dany laughed again. "I suppose you're right. Arya, I know we've only just met, but if you're willing to tell me, I would very much like to hear how you came to the Red Waste. And, if you're willing, would you tell me what's happening across the Narrow Sea? If I plan to sail across and take back the throne that is rightfully mine, I need to know exactly what I'm sailing into. Word may travel slowly there, but it travels far slower here. Most in the Free Cities have no interest in the goings-on of Westeros; they do not care who sits the throne, nor do they care who's warring with whom, as long as it doesn't infringe upon their trade, their wine, or their . . . women. I'm sure you also know that I have few, if any, supporters across the sea. Not right now, at least." It was true. The Hound only knew of Dany because of his place near Joffrey, although from what he'd told Arya, she had been under the impression that Dany had a horde of Dothraki behind her back. From the relative peace outside the tent, Arya wasn't entirely sure that was still the case. The truth of the matter was that she didn't know what the case was, only that the noblemen of Westeros were more concerned allying themselves with the Lannisters or the Baratheons, and at the moment, it seemed to be whoever had more money. Dany was, Arya supposed, out of sight and out of mind. The common people didn't even know she existed. Arya didn't know much about war, but she was sure it gave her some sort of advantage. "I'm sure you can understand that we don't get very many ravens from Westeros, nor can we find very many willing to sail back and froth across the Narrow Sea solely for information. Therefore, it's limited. Who sits the throne?"

"Joffrey Baratheon," Arya said, with some vague amount of exhaustion. The hot water felt good against her skin once she had gotten used to it, but all of Dany's talking was forcing her mind to work a little too quickly. She was struggling to stay awake.

"And Margaery Tyrell is still his queen, I presume," Dany said, though she seemed upset at this notion. "I admit, I do not play at politics nearly as well as Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan. They're seasoned fighters, and I pale in comparison. I let my dragons do all my work for me. But I know enough about it to know that the Lannisters still hold the throne and they have all of House Tyrell's power and wealth behind them, and that cannot be good for us." Had her mind been less hazy, Arya would have remarked on the dragons; however, she didn't.

"And Dorne," Arya said. "Dorne has allied with the throne, as well. Only Stannis Baratheon and his Red Priestess fight against them, and they don't have the ships they need, not after Blackwater Bay. That was two years ago, but then the Tyrells came and joined their house with the Baratheons, and the people love Margaery. She's made them love Joffrey, too, the blind bats. My sister, Sansa, has been wed to Tyrion Lannister. The Greyjoys are still in open rebellion, but the Lannisters aren't concerned. They have all of the south and half of the north behind them, and Stannis can't meet anybody in battle, even if it were only the Greyjoys. I would tell you that Stannis would join your cause, but that would be a lie." 

Dany let a soft sigh flow from her lips. For a long time, neither of them said anything, and Arya appreciated the stretch of silence. Perhaps Dany would decide not to go across the Narrow Sea after all. Perhaps she would give up and Arya could be free to journey on to Braavos where she could live the rest of her days without worrying which lord was fighting which king. She wouldn't have to send a son off to deliver messages or fight; she wouldn't have to condemn a daughter to betrothal. She wouldn't have to be 'Lady Stark.' But, as Arya expected, Dany was not swayed.

"You and I are not so different, Arya. You have lost your father, your mother, and your brother. I, too, have had these things taken from me. I will admit, some part of me was relieved to know that there was no longer a King in the North. I did, for a long time, consider treating with your brother and discussing a potential alliance. If he and his armies helped me win back the Iron Throne, I would have let him keep the north. I was relieved that his forces were no longer a potential threat to mine, but I was also hurt to know that he had been slain. I never met your brother, nor did I have any great love for your father . . . " Dany trailed off for a moment. "The things I heard about your brother were few, I will admit, but they were all great. He never lost a battle; he commanded, but he was fair and just. From what I understand, your brother went to war because he felt he had to, because his father had been killed by a false king, and because that king still held you and your sister. He went to war for his family. I am also going to war for my family, to reclaim what was taken from us all those years ago. Perhaps I have always had more in common with the Starks than I realized."

"The men who killed my brother are dead," Arya said, flatly. She was not interested in reminiscing about her brother, nor did she care about the reasons he had gone to war. Daenerys Targaryen did not know him, nor would she ever. She said so herself; they hardly heard the news from Westeros. How was she to know or understand Robb's reasons? "I owe no allegiance to those houses involved, and I doubt they have any love for me. I'll tell you everything you need to know, but I need to get to Braavos."

"Braavos is half a world away," Dany said, furrowing her brows. "We're headed in that direction, but I fear we won't get there for weeks to come. Arya, I will help you restore the north to what it was before all of the bloodshed. You can sit your own throne."

"I'm not interested in a throne. I just want to go home."

"It seems to me you're running away from it." Dany's voice was quiet but stern. She didn't know if Dany was used to being questioned or not, but Arya had made up her mind that she wasn't bending her knee to anybody, and it seemed that even in her half-delirious state, that defiance had shown through.

"My home was Winterfell," Arya said, "before it burnt down. Now, Braavos may be the closest thing I have to one." She closed her eyes and tipped her head back against the edge of the basin, a faint stinging behind her eyes. Again, she willed herself not to cry before the future queen of Westeros, but the realization that she had no true home had hit her suddenly. She had been running from that thought for the past two years, distant and numb ever since she and the Hound had approached the remains of what used to be her home, the blackened wood, the fallen stone. It was the first time that he had ever seen her cry; it would not be the last.

"Sometimes, going home is not easy, especially when we're no longer sure our homes belong to us," Dany said. "I will do my best to get you back to yours, wherever you decide it is. I would have wanted someone to do the same for me." She rose from the cushion and slipped her feet back into her silken sandals. "We'll talk more once you've rested. You can find all you need in the trunk at the end of the bed. You're quite safe here." With that, Dany pushed back the curtains of the tent and left Arya in a lonely silence. She reached to the side of the basin and dug around in her ruined clothes, finding the ring and the coin still safe. She slipped the Clegane ring back onto her finger and closed her fingers tight around the coin. It was only when she was sure Dany wouldn't return that Arya allowed herself to cry. The salt from her tears burnt her cheeks, just as she'd expected. When she opened her eyes again, it was all she could do not to scream, as her vision blurred the image of Jaqen H'ghar. How had he gotten inside so quickly, and how had he gotten into the tub without her noticing?

"How did you get here?" Arya asked, pulling her legs up to her chest, although her knees didn't want to bend.

"A man goes where he is needed," Jaqen said, sinking lower into the steaming water as Arya withdrew her legs. Arya, suddenly furious, splashed hot water to the opposite side of the basin, successfully wetting Jaqen's face and part of his hair. He gave a slight roll of his eyes, exasperated with her stubbornness already, but said nothing.

"You haven't been there for me for the past three years." Arya's voice was frantic and angry, but she whispered for fear of being overheard. "You never helped me get back to my family. You weren't there when my brother and mother were being betrayed. You weren't there when I had to run from half of the damn world. You weren't there when my house fell, when the north fell, and I needed you then, too. But I don't need you now."

"A man offered a girl a way out, a way that would keep her safe and hidden from other men. A girl did not take it."

"Oh, stop," Arya said. "'A man' this, 'a girl' that. I had to find my family. I had to go home. Braavos isn't home."

"But Braavos is home now," Jaqen said, and then paused for a moment before adding, with a half-smile, "A girl said so herself."

Arya shook her head and covered her sunburnt face with her cracked hands. "Braavos isn't Winterfell, Jaqen. Braavos isn't Winterfell, and you aren't even really here. I'm just making you up."

"A girl needs familiarity when she is lost in the desert with no one to trust."

Arya started to cry again and wiped her cheeks with a useless, cracked, wet hand. The coin was still clutched in her other fist, and she squeezed until her nails were pressing against the flats of her palms, all at the same time trying to squeeze Jaqen into existence and extinguish the flame that was bringing him to her. When she had known him before, she had been stubborn and hardheaded, and he had been straddling the line of amused and taken aback. Now, she just felt vulnerable and exposed, knowing that she had nothing to be stubborn or hardheaded about, knowing that it wasn't fair for her to blame Jaqen H'ghar for all of the hardships that had been laid at her feet by the Lannisters. It was just that she needed _someone_ to blame, and all of the Lannisters seemed worlds away. They couldn't feel her rage, and if they could, they wouldn't have cared. But she could try and wound Jaqen. She could try and make him regret leaving. It was clear, by the look on his face, that she had accomplished some part of that selfish goal, although she knew it wasn't with her words. Jaqen looked positively miserable as he looked at Arya; like he would, if he had the capability of doing so, move the mountains blocking her way and shorten the distance between Braavos and wherever she was. Jaqen lifted his arms out of the water, and Arya shifted the few feet it took until she was in them. It was the closest they had ever been, and she could feel his skin pressed against her skin and feel his fingers as he slipped them through her hair, undoing all of the tangles and washing out all of the grime. It was hard for Arya to believe that he wasn't real, that it wasn't Jaqen in the flesh, but she knew that thought was a ridiculous one. He had appeared to her in the desert and left her there; he appeared to her now, and Arya knew he would leave her there. It wasn't really Jaqen. It would never really be Jaqen.

"I close my eyes and I still see the way they paraded him around," Arya said, voice shaking with her tears. "I can still hear their chants when I'm falling asleep. I wish I could turn back time, Jaqen. I could have gotten there sooner. I could have warned him."

"A girl cannot change the past," Jaqen said, "but perhaps she could alter the course of the future."

"I'm just a girl," Arya said, her face pressed into Jaqen's chest. He smelled like fire, and light, and the sea, and Arya was intoxicated. "I can't do anything."

"A girl can fight. A girl can pray."

"Praying and fighting won't bring my brother back, Jaqen. It won't right the wrongs that have been done to my family." Arya wanted to move away from him, then, but his arms were tight around her, and his skin was soft and warm. "The gods won't hear my prayers, old or new."

"The Red God hears all prayers, sweet girl." Jaqen's voice was but a whisper by her ear, and Arya suddenly perked up. It was like someone had moved the stone covering the well that led to a river of hope. Fire danced in her eyes, and she lifted herself up to look at Jaqen. Three years had passed and she had changed in many ways; her hair was longer than it had been when she and Jaqen first met. She had gotten older but still had many years of youth left to her name. She had more scars than she had before, and she had killed men and painted her face with their life's blood. She had seen battle and bloodshed, and she had given herself over to passion and pleasure, even though she had not and would not marry Sandor Clegane, even though they did not love each other. But she never prayed. She did not pray to the Warrior for strength, to the Mother for comfort and health, to the Stranger to keep her safe on long forgotten roads. She did not pray to the old gods, either; they were wasted words. Her prayer was the ever-growing list of names constantly rattling through her mind, the names she would whisper before she fell asleep, thinking of Robb and his wolf head, and the flames that had been all around, and the look of horror on the Hound's face, when she realized that, deep down, he also felt some incredible sadness. She had never seen the old or new gods answer prayers, but she had seen the Lord of Light restore Beric Dondarrion, bring him back from whatever darkness was awaiting him. She had seen the genuine surprise and terror on the face of the red woman they called Melisandre. If the Red God could bring Beric Dondarrion back six times, surely he could bring back Robb, and his foes would cower in the shadow of the Young Wolf. There was a look on Jaqen's face, a darkness in his eyes that told her he somehow knew the thoughts that were going through her mind.

"Could the Lord of Light bring Robb back to life?" Arya whispered. "If I prayed, if I found someone like Melisandre or Thoros, could they bring him back to life?"

"A man does not have all the answers, lovely girl, but do not forget: only death can pay for life."

Arya sunk back into the water, resting her warm cheek on Jaqen's shoulder, her face pressed into the curve of his neck. "I'll kill them all until the south flows with the blood of traitorous men. The wolves will come again."


	3. Six Times

Far across the Narrow Sea, Sandor Clegane was riding to Winterfell. The castle had been abandoned for over two years—burnt to the ground and left behind. Though great parts of it were still in ruin, the fire had not, for the most part, damaged the heavy stone walls. If one could move the wood and the glass and any fallen stone, it would be a relatively safe, not to mention vacant, castle. As far as ruined castles went, Winterfell was a hair better off than Harrenhal had been, and Tywin Lannister had holed up there with few complaints. He had an army, though; Clegane did not. If anyone was looking, it would make finding him that much more difficult.

He had instructed Arya to send for him at Winterfell. He had a few loose ends to deal with—and those loose ends had taken longer than he'd expected—but he was very nearly there. By sunrise, the remains of the castle would be visible on the horizon, and by the time the sun was directly overhead, he would be there. Arya hadn't questioned his motives for staying at Winterfell, which was fortunate, because he didn't know. He felt that there was something there that would help, and he knew that if Jon Snow were alive, he would turn up at Winterfell sooner or later. Regardless of his conscious or subconscious reasons, Winterfell was where he needed to be.

Just as he had expected, he arrived at the half-open gate as the sun began causing pinpricks of sweat across his forehead. He dismounted his horse and ducked beneath the gate, the horse following suit. It was eerie how quiet everything was. The town was empty and silent, and high above it loomed the castle that he was sure had once been great. It was now charred and broken, gnarled fingers withdrawing into a burnt hand. It made Clegane felt right at home. He, too, was charred and broken. He led his horse through soot and bones, sorrow permeating every inch of what remained. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the anguished screams of the dying, although they had been dead for years. He was very careful not to close his eyes. When he entered the castle's courtyard, he stopped short, and his horse, agitated, snorted at him.

 _Here lies the traitor Robb Stark and his demon wolf_ , a sign said, and below it, on a small stone platform, were the bones of Robb Stark, with thick pieces of string looped through his collarbones connecting the skull of his wolf to his body. His skull was on a spike a few feet away, and his wolf's body was hanging below the sign. Perhaps this was the reason he had come. Perhaps something he couldn't imagine or conceive had brought him there.

There was nothing for the horse to eat, and nowhere for it to go, so Clegane let it roam around the courtyard, searching. He walked up to the stone platform and sat on the edge, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that was creeping up on him. When had he begun to care about these Stark girls, and why? He had offered to take Sansa Stark away from the hell she was living, a crime punishable by death. He had taken Arya Stark under his wing, protected her and cared for her in a way neither of them would have ever anticipated, and now he sat in the ruins of the Stark castle, putting right a wrong he did not commit nor care about. Yet for some reason, despite his desperate want to feel nothing for the dead Starks, an incredible sorrow had wrapped itself around his heart, as thick and as mournful as whatever was in the air. Carefully, he took a dagger to Robb's bones and cut the threads holding Grey Wind's head onto his body. He was careful when he pulled the skull off of the spike; one wrong move would shatter it completely. It came off intact, for the most part, and he set to work threading Robb's skull to his body, there under the sun in Winterfell, which was somehow cold and blistering at the same time.

Inside the castle, a raven sat, patiently waiting for him.

#

Arya Stark emerged from the tent. It was smaller than Dany's but had similar comforts, although she still hadn't gotten used to wearing the sheer, silken dresses. She hadn't had to dress the part of Lady Stark in years; why should she resume the habit now? Typically, she left the dresses behind for something less lady-like but, in her eyes, more comfortable. She had been riding from city to city with the ever-growing camp for nearly two months, but every day, the sheer size of it all still managed to astound her. The dragons had grown large, and they typically flew ahead of the camp, causing cities to pointlessly bar their gates and send their richest running for cover. The beasts made Arya nervous. Arya, who had grown up believing that they were myth and legend, that the time of dragons was well over, who had stood inside the skull of a dragon while hiding from conspirators and knew just how large the creatures really were, did not like them.

They were camped just outside Valysar, patiently awaiting word from a slave trader as to whether he would release his slaves into Dany's care or choose to hole himself up like so many others did. But this man was smart. Arya arrived at Dany's tent shortly after the man, who was on bended knee and swearing his allegiance to Dany and her massive army. She could have the slaves, the man was telling her. She could have all of them, and she could do with them what she wanted. She could have his gold, his houses, his lands, his ships. Dany refused it all, except for the ships. There were ten of them, small transport ships and not very good in a battle, but ships were ships, and ships were needed. She had more than enough men to sail them, and she sent one-hundred-and-four back with the man. One hundred of them would sail the ten ships down the Rhoyne, into the Summer Sea, through the Stepstones, and up the narrow sea to Pentos where the remainder of her ships sat, waiting for her slow arrival. The other four—Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, Missandei, and Arya—were to follow the man into Valysar and ensure that he held up to his end of the bargain. The newly freed people of Valysar were to be escorted outside the city gates, where Dany would give her customary speech and where, as usual, none of them would choose to leave the woman who had given them their freedom. Even though Arya had seen it happen multiple times, she was still in awe of the girl with white hair and honey voice.

Arya mounted her horse and followed the three, ahead of the hundred, behind the man who led them back into the city with trembling knees. Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah slowed to ride on either side of Arya. Like a devil and an angel they were, one always encouraging and one always questioning. It had been irritating at first, but together, they had pushed Arya. They had helped her think about things differently, from a soldier's standpoint and not simply the standpoint of a girl trying to avenge her family. She practiced with the sword every day, with both of them giving her advice and help. Arya could not be more nimble with a sword; Syrio would have been proud.

“You're thinking again,” Selmy said, a smile playing upon his lips.

“Your forehead is creasing most terribly,” Jorah added. “If you're not careful, you may get a few wrinkles before your time.”

“You would know all about wrinkles,” Arya said, and both men laughed. She was always sour when they interrupted her thoughts, and her age and anger showed whenever she lashed out.

“You've been distant as of late,” Selmy said, his hood drawn over his face, as if he had to hide from someone. “You're not thinking of leaving, are you?”

“I need to get to Braavos,” Arya said, the same thing she always remarked whenever anybody questioned her thoughts, plans, allegiances.

“You'll get there,” Jorah assured her, “but there's more to it than that, isn't there? You stay up well into the night looking at maps and charts, calculating costs. You make friends in every city, important ones, ones who will do favors for you. Do you think the queen has not noticed your distance, Arya? She is more concerned than either of us.”

“I told her, 'you cannot tame a wild wolf,' yet she will not listen,” Selmy said. “Perhaps if you told her your plans, she would help you. She cares for you, Arya—even loves you.” On Arya's opposite side, Jorah blanched. She pretended not to notice. “Go back, and tell her the reason you have these maps and charts, these hidden caches of gold. Let her help you.”

Arya, frustrated, pulled back on her horse's reins and turned, weaving her way back through the hundred men following them, away from the knights. It was a short ride back to Dany's tent, and Arya pushed back the curtain without asking if she could enter. Dany did not seem surprised.

“I knew they would get to you eventually,” Dany said, smiling at Arya. “You have told me all you can of Westeros, I know. Yet every day, you wait for a raven. You train until you are exhausted, and then you are awake all night, looking at maps and counting coins. When do you sleep? Tell me, Arya. Tell me your plans.” There was a hint of excitement in Dany's voice, and it concerned Arya. Was there so much trust between them that Dany already knew Arya wasn't going to betray her?

 _You fool,_ Arya thought. _You're a Stark. You don't betray people who are in the right._ Still, she hesitated. Dany motioned for her to come closer, to sit on the ground in front of her, and she began to comb Arya's hair until it was shining and no longer knotted. Starting at the top of Arya's head, she began to braid her hair in a style that would surely take hours to complete. Dany enjoyed playing with Arya's hair, however, and Arya enjoyed letting her.

“I need to get to Braavos,” Arya said.

“Those are sure to be the last words you say before you die,” Dany said, amusement in her voice. “You've said that one phrase more than you've said your own family words, I'm sure.”

Arya ignored the jape. “There's someone waiting for me there.” She didn't know if Jaqen really was waiting, but she had to find out. Her wandering around Essos had all been to find him. Now, she had some larger goal—and maybe it was foolish, and maybe part of her knew that, and maybe that was why she hadn't told anybody except for whatever part of her mind still kept conjuring up images of Jaqen—but it would still take the faceless Braavosi to help her accomplish it.

“And he's the one from which you await your raven?”

“No.” Arya bit her lower lip. She had sent the raven nearly two months ago, as soon as they'd gotten into a city. Surely, if the Hound was still alive, she would have received one in return; if he still cared. “Before we went different ways, he told me he was going to Winterfell.” The memory of the Hound pushing the boat into the water still hurt.

“But you told me Winterfell burnt down,” Dany said.

“It did,” Arya said. “I mean, it isn't liveable anymore. Not really. But it's still standing. Sort of.” Arya frowned, knitting her brows together, and Dany tapped the top of her head. Arya relaxed and mumbled an apology. Dany restarted the braid with a sigh. “No one would look for the Hound there. Why should he be there? Nobody except for the Brotherhood knows that he took me, and half the realm thinks all of the Starks are dead. Except for my sister, but she doesn't . . . count.”

“But aren't they?” Dany asked. “Except for you and your sister.”

Arya shook her head but said nothing, knowing she had no proof to back up her belief that somewhere out there, she still had living family unconnected—however begrudgingly—to the Lannisters. She refused to believe that Jon Snow was dead, although she and the Hound went to the Wall only to find it abandoned. They returned south but found no sign of any of the men of the Night's Watch, and that included her half-brother. As for Bran and Rickon, she could sense them in dreams . . .

“Hope is a powerful thing,” Dany said. Over the last two months, she had learned that Arya received no pleasure in talking about her dead or missing family. “The Hound is in Winterfell.”

“Yes. I sent him a raven and told him that he needed to get my brother's bones.” Arya paused. “Dany, do you pray?”

Dany seemed taken aback by this question and confused as to why Arya needed Robb's remains. She wanted to ask, but Arya's question seemed too important. “I . . . suppose I do.”

“The new gods? The old? The Red God?”

“I pray to whichever god is listening,” Dany replied. “I don't care whether it's new or old or Red, just so long as it hears me.”

“I've never seen prayers answered,” Arya said, “not by my father's gods and not by mother's. But the Red God . . . I have seen him answer prayers. With my own eyes, I've seen him restore life to dead eyes.”

Dany's expression turned sad, although Arya did not see. She, like Arya, had seen the Red God work his magic in the form of Mirri Maz Duur. The blood magic used, in the name of the same god to which Arya referred, had brought stone to life, although it had cost her husband and her son and the woman. But she had her dragons now, small miracles grown into large, fierce ones. 

“Go on,” Dany said. Arya turned and Dany sighed in frustration; she would have to restart the braid.

“What if I could bring Robb back to life?”

The question hung between the two of them, crackling and snapping as if it were on fire. Dany's eyes, filled with fear and sadness and apprehension, locked onto Arya's, which were filled with wonder and excitement at the possibility of what she could do, but also with anger at the fact that it was even a question at all. In her heart of hearts, Arya knew that she should not have to bring her brother back to life, nor should she try to drag him from the depths of wherever he'd been resting for the past two years. She should not try, yet she would.

“What if you could?” Dany returned. “What would you do, if your brother were alive again? If he sat his horse? If he could wield a sword? How would that help you?”

“It wouldn't help me,” Arya said. “It would help you. If the north saw Robb Stark back on his horse, with his wolf at his side, they would rally behind him again. He could call his banners, and they would all come. I know they would. And he would join you. Robb started a war because Joffrey beheaded my father, not because he wanted to be a king. He wants the rightful heir to the Iron Throne to be sitting there, and that's you. By blood, that's you. He would help you. My brother never lost a battle; I know he wouldn't lose yours.”

“This can't be done,” Dany said. She had sworn never again to dabble in blood magic. “Your brother is dead, Arya. I know that it's been hard for you, but you have to accept that. You must. He is dead, and his wolf is dead, and he cannot lead an army, nor can he help mine. No matter how much we may want these things to happen. The support of the north—the support of anyone or anything across the Narrow Sea—would be a large comfort, but it's impossible. Arya, if they're going to rally behind any Stark, if you _want_ them to rally behind a Stark . . . it must be you.”

“Six times,” Arya said. “The Red God brought Beric Dondarrion back six times.”

“And where do you expect to find a priest or priestess who could speak to or for this Red God?” Dany asked. Her eyes were ablaze with something that seemed almost like anger. “Do you think they come easily? Do you think they come for free? Blood magic always has a price, Arya Stark, and I saw that when I lost my husband and my child. Who would you be willing to lose to see meat restored to your brother's crumbling bones? Would you sacrifice yourself for that?”

“Yes,” Arya said, without fear or hesitation. “There is more at stake here than my life. Westeros suffers under Joffrey's reign, and most of the people don't even realize now that Margaery is queen. There are dark forces at work. The Wall was abandoned when we went to find my brother. There is something deadly beyond it, something terrible, and we can't fight it until Westeros is united under one banner. Your banner. Let me do this, or soon, you may no longer have a throne.”

“Where would you go?” Dany asked.

“Asshai,” Arya said. “Melisandre was from Asshai. I could find more like her. All I need is one.”

“What if it doesn't work? What if you go to Asshai and find a Red Priestess and she cannot bring your brother back to life? What if you go to Asshai and cannot find one at all? What if your Hound cannot find your brother's bones? What if he no longer lives himself?” Dany frowned. “And Braavos is on the opposite end of the world as Asshai. Why Braavos?”

“I told the Hound to send my brother's bones there,” Arya said.

“But _why_?” Dany asked. “I thought you'd never been.”

“I haven't,” Arya turned again and let Dany restart the braid for the second time.


	4. Don't Break Anything

Arya dreamt about Robb.

When she opened the heavy door that led her to him, she was filled with happiness, pure ecstasy at seeing her brother again, but her happiness turned to sorrow as she surveyed the room around her. Her mother stood, unseeing, with a gaping, red wound on her neck; her father sat beside her, behind the desk that had been in his solar, quill scratching away on some piece of parchment, and his head sat atop the desk beside it; Robert Baratheon sat on the Iron Throne, some ways away from Ned and Catelyn, laughing and drinking wine. Each jolt of laughter caused more blood to spurt from his gut. Lady and Grey Wind were lazing on the floor beneath a long table, their coats matted and brown with blood, and at the table sat Jon Snow, full of arrows. Arya let out a cry so pitiful that all of the dead eyes turned to see her.

There were countless dead, she realized. The entire north was in that room, all of the people she had ever known and lost. All of the people she feared losing. The Hound was tied to a large wooden beam and burning; Jaqen H'ghar hung from a chandelier in the center of the room; Sansa and Tyrion, fingers interlaced, lay bleeding in their bed; Bran and Rickon sat, shivering, holding each other, hands bloody. But despite their bloody predicaments, the cold eyes of the dead still remained on Arya as she cried, as she tried desperately to run towards Jon. He smiled at her, his arms open wide as he waited to receive her, but she couldn't reach him. She was running in place.

Could it be true? Was this the harsh reality that she must face, that all of the people she cared for, even the ones she was looking for, were already dead?

“Arya.”

She turned to face the voice, her older brother, who looked at her with sad eyes.

“Robb,” she said, voice cracking as she began to cry more, wanting nothing more than to run to him and hold him. She didn't try; she feared she couldn't.

“You can't bring me back,” Robb said, and Arya was so confused that she stopped crying. “Please, don't bring me back.”

“Don't bring him back,” Catelyn echoed, eyes trained on Arya but still foggy.

“Leave him be,” Ned said. “He's happy here. We're all happy here. We're in a better place here.”

“A better place?” Arya said, her voice echoing off of the damp, stone walls. “You're all crammed inside one room in a crumbling castle. There's fire, but it's still cold. There's food, but you can't eat. How are you happy? How is this better?”

“You chose,” Jon said.

“You chose,” Robert said, laughing and roaring as he did, and he lifted a large goblet of wine to his mouth and guzzled it down.

“You chose to see what you wanted to see,” Ned said. “You chose to see us unhappy, unloved, starving and cold.”

“You chose these things to justify other choices,” Jon said. He said it through a crinkled smile that had grown so large, it seemed grotesque and fake.

Arya was crying again, silently. “Show me. Show me how it really is. Whichever god is listening, show me how it really is.”

And all at once, the world changed. She was bathed in light: bright, warm, inviting sunlight. It smelled like the long summer. She was standing in a field, surrounded by large trees which had ripe fruit hanging from low branches. Jon walked beside her and reached up to twist a peach from one of the trees. Hungrily, he bit into it, and then gave the peach to Arya. She did the same. It was the sweetest peach she'd ever tasted.

“I'm only here because some part of you believes I'm here,” Jon said as they walked through the knee-high grass. It was as soft as a cloud, and Arya thought she could lay down and sleep forever. The arrows that had pierced his skin before were gone. All of his furs and armor from the Night's Watch were gone. He was in simple clothes now, no sign of blood, all genuine smiles and peach juice.

“But some of you are here,” Arya said.

“Some of us,” Jon said, nodding. “Some of us, but not all of us. Look at Bran and Rickon.” They came away from the trees and into the courtyard of Winterfell's castle. It had been rebuilt from precious jewels that glittered in the sun. High atop a tower, Maester Luwin waved at Arya and Jon. Catelyn and Ned Stark—eyes focused, head reattached—sat on a step made of sapphire, holding hands and laughing at Bran and Rickon, who were chasing Hodor around and around.

“He can walk,” Arya said, and tears sprang to her eyes once again. She fought them away.

“You know they aren't dead,” Jon said. “You can feel them in dreams, even though you can't see them. Do you believe that they're alive, Arya?”

Arya met Jon's kind, even gaze, and slowly nodded her head. Bran and Rickon, laughing and running around, faded until they were no longer there.

“Where did I send them?” Arya asked, panicked, wondering if she had just ruined everything. She didn't want to go back to the cold, cramped room.

“Nowhere,” Jon said. “You just admitted to yourself that they aren't here yet. What about the Hound? And Sansa and Tyrion?” For the first time, Arya saw them. Sansa was sitting on one of the many balconies, no doubt doing some splendid needlework. Her hair was beautiful; her dress was beautiful; she was beautiful. Tyrion stood beside her, looking proud and accomplished, and they exchanged a loving look that Arya would not have believed possible. But hadn't Catelyn told her daughters that she had grown to love Ned Stark, that she hadn't loved him at first? Arya couldn't imagine _not_ loving her father. Tyrion was witty, funny, clever, intelligent, kind—perhaps Sansa had outgrown her need for handsome looks and the stature of a knight. Perhaps she had grown to love Tyrion Lannister. The Hound stood behind them, and for the first time, Arya saw him smiling. They faded away. When she looked back, Jon was gone, too.

“All hail the King in the North,” somebody shouted, and Arya turned to see Robb descending a ruby staircase. A young woman was beside him, all smiles, holding a baby in her arms. The baby was wrapped in a blanket into which House Stark's sigil was stitched.

“Don't bring me back,” Robb said, and although he no longer wore a full mask of sorrow, his eyes were still unnaturally sad. Nobody around them seemed to notice. “Please, Arya. Take my bones to the crypt beneath Winterfell, and let me rest in peace. Don't take me away from this so I can carry a sword and sit a horse and lead an army to slaughter. We're all so happy here. Don't you see? Can't you see how happy we are?”

“But . . .” Arya began, and Robb turned angry.

“I'm happy,” he said. The people around him seemed not to notice the fire that had replaced the sadness in his eyes. “I'm happy, Arya. If you want the north to rise again, do it yourself. You sit the horse and hold the sword. You ride south and kill innocent people in the name of justice and freedom. Don't bring me back. If you bring me back, I'll slit your throat.”

A shadowy figure, red and faceless, crept behind Robb like smoke. In a flash, Robb was being pulled away from Arya, screaming and begging and threatening, and the people around Arya began to scream in terror. The girl who had come in beside Robb had dropped the baby, and Catelyn was weeping into Ned's shoulder, and Ned had a stony look of mourning on his face, and then Jaqen was there, calling her a stupid girl; his hands were around her throat, and he was squeezing the very life out of her.

Arya awoke to hands around her throat, although they were not Jaqen's. She had been torn from her strange nightmare by someone in a black cloak, and the mask over their face looked so fragile, it could have been made from glass. Arya scratched at their hands with her short nails, fighting for breath. She was alone in her tent, in a dress that was all-too-revealing. It was light and silky, and every time a breeze came through the tent, she felt it on every inch of her skin. Despite the roaring heat, she had little desire to wear it outside of the tent; when she slept, however, it was wonderful. Now she wished she would have been wearing something else.

She lifted her hand and clapped the masked assassin on the ear hard enough to cause them to roll away, and Arya clambered to her feet. Her knees were wobbly, her heart threatened to burst through her skin, and her mind was hazy from sleep. She grabbed a dagger from the table, but a second hand reached for it, too, caught her wrist and squeezed so hard that Arya was forced to drop it. It fell to the ground with a low thump. The hand that was on her wrist let go to cover her mouth, and Arya could feel something sharp pushing into the skin beneath her collarbone. She let out a muffled scream, blood cascading down her body to dampen and ruin the silk dress; it stuck to her body in places she would have preferred it not to have. She pushed the assassin away, trying to run, but they grabbed her by the hair, the braid that Dany had finally gotten through only hours before. It was horrifying, Arya thought, that her hair was long enough to grab. And how it hurt. She had been pleased that her hair was growing long again; she loved when Dany played with it. She had never enjoyed the dresses, but she had liked handmaidens twisting and braiding her hair for hours each morning. She enjoyed watching it flow and twirl in the wind, hiding and revealing her face. She enjoyed its weight, its flow, but now, she tugged the small dagger from her shoulder and clumsily reached behind her, swiping at the braid. She successfully cut it off, leaving her with chin-length hair once more, and fell to the ground. The assassin, confused at first, dropped the braid to the floor and leapt for Arya. As they landed on top of her, Arya pressed the dagger through their throat, and the person—man, woman, southerner, northerner, Braavosi, Lyseni, Arya would never know— twitched and gurgled and breathed no more.

For the first time since her waking, her thoughts went to Barristan, to Jorah, to Dany. Were there assassins in their tents, as well? Arya pushed herself from the ground. The adrenaline was dulling the pain in her shoulder, but it was still beating a steady throb. She ran out of her tent and into the night. All was quiet, but for one, two, three angry grunts in a tent near her own. Arya ran, pulled back the flap, and saw Selmy and Jorah tied on the floor. She cut them free with the bloody dagger and the three returned outside, just in time to see the smallest of Dany's three dragons bite a man in half. For her part, Dany stood calmly and watched it happen. Arya felt sick.

The camp began packing up at once. Soldiers and handmaidens and travelers were awoken. Horses were fed and loaded, and in what seemed like the blink of an eye, Dany and her camp were ready to move. Arya knew that it had been much longer; when she reemerged from Dany's tent, wound cleaned and sewn and bandaged by Missandei, the sun had woken up, as well. Someone had taken Arya's tent down for her.

“I told Jorah to prepare your horses,” Dany said. “I think you should ride to Braavos now.”

“What?” Arya was confused. “But we won't get to Pentos for weeks.”

“We won't,” Dany said, “but alone, you can get to Braavos in a matter of days. I no longer have time to wait to take back my kingdom. Where there are a few assassins, there will be more, and next time, we will not all be so lucky. I must begin my assault sooner rather than later, and you must find your Red Priestess.”

“What if she can't bring Robb back?” Arya said, but the real question was, _what if I've changed my mind?_

“Return to Pentos as soon as you can,” Dany said, and then added, “With or without your brother. You can command the north for me if it doesn't work.”

“Me?” Arya said. “I can't . . . I can't command the north. I don't even know how to call banners. I don't even know which banners we still _have_.”

“I don't care if your so-called banners are the broken remnants of once-great knights and the only farmers left in the north. But I need something that can march down from the north and lay siege to the south.”

“Dany, I'll be lucky to get a hundred green boys who are craven and have never carried a sword.”

“That's a hundred boys we didn't have before,” Dany said.

“I thought you didn't trust blood magic.”

“I don't, but in war, sometimes great sacrifices must be made.”

Arya nodded, one tiny jerk of the head. It was true. But could she really sacrifice her brother's potential happiness? What if he was happy, peaceful in a Winterfell made of rubies and sapphires and diamonds? _But what if he isn't happy?_ Arya thought. _What if he's in a small, cold, damp hall in some castle, surrounded by blood and fire and the miserable sounds of his men dying?_ Still, his anger had seemed so real, the fire in his eyes—she had never seen anything like it before. And Jaqen, with his hands around her throat . . .

She absentmindedly lifted her own hand to her throat, and then raked her fingers through her damp hair. Her cutting it had been a botch job; it looked terrible. Dany had fixed that with a small knife while Missandei patched her shoulder. It didn't look terrible anymore, but Arya wasn't happy with the transformation, the reversion. Although she was in a bloody silk dress, one so sheer that her breasts and bellybutton were visible beneath the fabric, she didn't bother to change. There was no time, and she couldn't be bothered to rifle through her bags. She would be less fatigued, also, if she didn't ride through the heat wearing heavy clothes. She found Jorah, who had gathered her things for her. He seemed unfazed by her garb, and Arya assumed it was because so many of Dany's handmaidens—and sometimes Dany—wore similar dresses.

“Dany told me to give you two horses. One to carry, one to ride. Kill one for food if you must, although there should be enough to get you to Braavos. Your maps and gold are safe in this satchel.” Jorah motioned as he spoke; the coin that Jaqen gave her was tucked firmly between two pieces of leather on the saddle of the horse she would be riding. “Eat the fruit first, or it will spoil in the sun. You have bread and dried meat, and plenty of water. Ride fast, but don't tire the horses. Don't sleep in the open; don't stop in villages. Where one horse goes, the other will follow, but they're linked, just in case. Every day, you should rotate which horse carries your belongings and which horse carries you.”

Arya heard his words but only responded with a non-committal nod. 

“I wish you the best of luck, Arya,” Jorah said. “Ser Barristan wanted me to give this to you, to hide your face from any further . . . intruders.” He held out the hooded cloak that Selmy wore so often, and Arya took it. She slipped it on immediately, pleased to find it relatively light, and mounted her horse. “Ride northwest. That way.” He pointed, although he knew it was senseless. Arya had been studying maps of Essos nearly every night for the past two months. She could ride the horses to Braavos with her eyes closed.

“I'll see you soon,” Arya said, and she pulled the hood over her head, turning her face into shadow and obscurity. The horse reared into a trot as soon as she kicked its sides, the other following suit, and then the horses were running, and then they were nothing but spots in the distance.

For a long time, Jorah watched Arya go, sadly. “What if she doesn't return?”

“She will,” Dany said. She and Selmy had joined Jorah, watching Arya ride off until she wasn't even visible on the horizon. “She'll return, and she'll sail west with me, and she'll find that she has the strength to rouse whichever sleeping giants are in the north.”

“You don't think she'll come back with her brother?” Selmy asked.

“No. I don't think she'll go through with it.” Dany paused. “And even if she does, I don't think it will work. Only death can pay for life, and too much life must be restored to Robb Stark's dusty bones.”

“What if it does work?” Jorah asked, turning his eyes away from the horizon for the first time. He looked at Dany, whose lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“Well, if it _does_ work . . .” She shrugged a lithe shoulder and lifted her dress as they began walking back to where the horses stood, chomping grass and waiting for their riders. “If it does work, I suppose we'll have to kneel for the King in the North.”

#

Sandor Clegane had received Arya's letter, although writing a response had not been an option. Not only could he find no parchment or quill, the raven flew away as soon as he detached the scroll, no doubt hungry and bored from its wait. He was confused as to why Arya wanted Robb and Grey Wind's bones sent to Braavos but relieved that he would not have to go to the Twins to get them. Someone had done half of his battle for him, bringing them to Winterfell as they did. What sort of shame was that? No one came to Winterfell; it was a ruin. It would have been better, Clegane thought, to leave them on display at the Twins, but Walder Frey had always been a stupid man. Based on the fact that Clegane had seen neither hair nor hide of any living person since his arrival in Winterfell, he could only assume that he was one of the first—if not the only—to witness Robb Stark's bones.

It had almost been two months ago, when he'd rooted around in the ashes and soot and splintered wooden beams of a once-great castle, looking for something in which to transport Robb's bones. He grumbled the entire time, wondering why he cared, telling himself it would be so much easier to simply ignore Arya's request, pretend he never received the raven, ride off to some remote town where nobody would find him or bother him. But he knew that wasn't possible. Anyone with half a brain knew him—the Hound with the burnt face, the man who never smiled. The man with an impossible, tangled, thorny heart. Yet when he had received Arya's letter, he had whooped and laughed, happy that the girl had gotten across the Shivering Sea, pleased that she was in good health and high spirits, and amused that the first person she'd befriended had been the Targaryen bitch. Perhaps he had been alone for too long and was going out of his mind.

Clegane had finally found a trunk big enough for human remains, although it was no easy task. He lined it with some old, half-burnt drapes that had been in an old, half-burnt bedroom, tucked an untouched pillow in the bottom and laid Robb's bones inside, with the remains of the wolf beside him and the note that Arya had instructed him to leave. He had found unburnt parchment in the trunk, but no quill, and all of the inkwells had run dry. He had cut the tip of his finger and written the note in blood. It was sloppy but effective. He put another pillow, charred but still soft, on top of the bones and closed the trunk. He latched it and then bound it three times over with rope. It wouldn't prevent anyone from opening it; the ropes could be cut and the latch had no lock. He was putting his trust in some unseen and unknown and probably untrustworthy force.

Sandor Clegane was not happy to leave the quiet, unbothered refuge of a broken Winterfell for Ramsgate, a place where he would certainly be noticed, but that was the only place in the north with which any ships from the Free Cities still bothered. He waited in Ramsgate for two weeks before a Braavosi trading galley finally laid port, and he had some quiet words with the captain, and the captain had some quiet words with a small pouch of gold. The captain was a loud, boisterous man who enjoyed taking on errands such as these. They gave him a sense of purpose, he told Clegane, a sense of mystery; like he was embarking on some grand quest. He wasn't honest or noble by any stretch of the imagination, and he was a little bit insane, but there wasn't much of a choice in the matter. Arya had said 'as soon as you're able,' and with her, that had always meant 'now.' He hadn't sent a raven in reply, but by the time he'd thought about it, he was already halfway back to Winterfell and was not eager to stop again.

Before he'd let the Braavosi captain take the trunk aboard, Clegane had tied a piece of parchment to the rope atop the trunk, and written upon it the strangest name he'd ever heard—much less had the pleasure to spell from memory—and the recipient of Robb's bones: Jaqen H'ghar.

#

Jaqen H'ghar never received anything from ravens or slobbering, drunken captains. A man such as himself couldn't receive packages and letters and still remain faceless. Thus was his chagrin when he was told by an innkeeper that a trunk had arrived for him and was sitting in the storage room and would be brought out to him for a price. Jaqen had argued that if the trunk was indeed his, if he was the intended recipient, and if his name were therefore somewhere written on this mysterious trunk, that he should have to pay no price to receive it, and had then knocked the man's head against the desk for challenging him in the first place.

The face he was wearing was not the one Arya knew, but he was Jaqen regardless. He sported thin lips; a long, grotesque nose; and foggy eyes, the eyes of a dimwit. His hair had grown longer, white streak and all. He stomped into the storage room, spotted the trunk easily among musty blankets and moth-filled pillows and dirty cauldrons for some disgusting and vile soup served at the inn. The trunk wasn't clean by any stretch of the imagination. At some point, it had gotten wet, and the bottom was rotting away. It was charred and the rope was fraying, but Jaqen managed, barely, to get it back to his unassuming hut without doing any further damage to it.

His hut was outside of Braavos, still on the island but not in the city. It was perilously built into the side of what amounted to a small mountain, and it took all day for him to lug the trunk without breaking open the bottom on the twisted and jagged rocks. He was exhausted by the time the trunk was safe on the wooden floor in what amounted to a bedroom. The hut was so small that it didn't have much to offer by way of rooms; they all ran together. His bed, small and insignificant, was tucked away in a corner beneath the only window, which, when opened, overlooked the bustling city of Braavos and let in the welcoming scent of the salty sea. Unfortunately, it also let in the unwelcoming sound of people shouting and screaming, as noise often carries obscene distances on an island full of frequent breezes from said sea; therefore, Jaqen opened the window minimally.

There was a small kitchen—if it could be called that; it was really more of a fireplace and a wooden table that doubled as a cutting board—and a wooden table that sat two, although Jaqen never had guests. It was at this wooden table that he sat, using a dull knife to tear at the rope and undo the latches. A pillow. All of that trouble for a pillow.

But beneath the pillow were bones, and that was a bit more interesting.

Crumpled between two delicate rib bones was a piece of parchment, which Jaqen withdrew, his foggy eyes reading the words written therein. _Sandor Clegane, the Hound._ Here, Jaqen took pause. The Hound had been one of the names Arya Stark recited before she went to sleep, one of the many names that Jaqen had expected her to offer up to the Red God. Yet she hadn't, and now this Hound was sending him packages. Jaqen scowled, had half a mind to toss the note away without finishing it. _These are the bones of Robb Stark and his wolf. Arya told me to send them to you._ Then, hastily scribbled, almost as an afterthought, _Don't break anything._

Clearly, this Hound had no idea how to write a proper letter. There was no formal salutation, no request to keep them safe, no goodbye. Just a simple 'do this, because a girl from your past told you to do it.' Jaqen knew that he would, just because a girl from his past told him to do it. Arya Stark had saved his life and he had killed for her in return. That was the way of things. But she had wriggled herself inside him somehow, caused him anguish and irritation, exhaustion and sadness. He wanted to touch her, but he didn't know how. He wanted to love her, but he didn't know how to do that, either. She had broken his heart when she denied his offer to take her to Braavos. He wanted to keep her safe. He wanted her to teach him how to love properly. She was a young girl, but she was fiery and full of life. Full of anger. Full of hatred. There was something wildly appealing about that. How long had it been? Three years? She must have been fifteen now. He traced a finger along one of the thick strings that held Robb Stark's head to his body. He wondered what had happened. Beheaded, no doubt, but why? Jaqen had never gotten too involved with Arya's life. He didn't know her reasons for hating. She had been so cryptic and distant, unwilling to trust. Maybe that was why he had liked her so much. She was, in some ways, a reflection of Jaqen H'ghar, one of his many faces. He wondered if she still had the coin.

He closed the trunk, tucked the letter into a drawer, and looked into the mirror. He didn't like the face he wore, the narrow eyes that held no life, the pointed nose that reminded him so much of a rat. He needed to change. He needed to be the Jaqen he was when he had met Arya Stark, when he had convinced her to let him out of his unfortunate cage, and when she had turned the tables and used him to help her. 'Unname me,' he had told her, but now he would give anything to hear his name upon her lips. He changed his face, back to the man with stubble, the man with a plump lower lip and a nose that sat just so on his face, rounded and proportionate, the man with bright eyes and a withering gaze. Handsome. Not dumb. The first face he'd worn when he had met Arya Stark, the only face he wanted to wear because it was the face that _she_ knew but the last face he wanted to be seen wearing in Braavos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks. I realize that the House of Black and White is a thing (although I know nothing about it, being only forty or so pages into ASOS). I realize that the Faceless Men are also a thing, but, again, I know nothing about them. I would Google and research, but unfortunately, I have no desire to have anything spoiled for myself. I feel the need to reiterate that I'm going off of what we know from the TV show thus far and making the rest up as I go along, mostly because . . . well, because I feel guilty that I know vague wisps of details and I'm not including them. Appreciate Jaqen's hut, anyway; it's solidly built.


	5. Just Will

After too many days of cruel, hard riding, Arya knew she should've already arrived at Braavos, but maps didn't show outlaw camps, Dothraki, thieves, and treacherous terrain, all of which Arya had had to detour—too many times—to avoid. Arya had assumed, stupidly and incorrectly, that she would be somewhat safe once she'd crossed the Narrow Sea, but the dangers in Essos were still many and the same as they were in Westeros. The only difference was that nobody cared who she was. They would kill her and steal her horses and what few worthless possessions she had. She couldn't promise a sweet ransom when there was nobody back home willing or able to pay.

There was less for them to steal now, though. Her food was nearly gone and one of the horses had died just that morning, no doubt from how hard she'd been riding them, pushing them far past the point of exhaustion with not enough time to sleep and not enough grass in which they could graze to make up for it all. Arya was feeling a bit worn herself. She had stopped the horses the night before beneath the shade and seclusion of an old willow tree, whose roots spread out farther than Arya would have thought imaginable, until they found permanent drink in a large pool of cool, crisp water. There was a small waterfall rushing over a low cliff of jagged rocks, too dangerous to try and scale; but the cliff seemed to stretch on for miles in either direction, leaving Arya with one choice: ride around it, however long that would take.

Now that the morning light had faded into afternoon, Arya was laying on her stomach by the side of the pool, squinting down at the maps she had spread out in front of her. She could trace her steps from her camp with Daenarys to just east of Dagger Lake, but then she'd had to push herself farther north than she wanted once she realized that the river was too flooded for the horses to cross. There, she'd had to go farther east to avoid a Dothraki camp no doubt poised to cross as soon as the waters lowered. By the time she looped back around and found a safe spot to cross at the river, she was thoroughly lost. So much of Essos was comprised of crumbling villages that were too small and insignificant to be on any map. She spoke with some of the villagers to try and plot where they were, but not even they knew where they were on the map. Villages that should have been farther east had been plotted as only a day's ride from the river; some villages near the outskirts of the Forest of Qohor had been marked as being in the middle of the Golden Fields, which wasn't even the right side of the river. _Useless fools_ , Arya thought to herself as she stared glumly at the map. _This place is made of blind fools and self-serving liars._ Then, bitterly, she added, _Well, it's just like home._

It was getting to be too hot for her leather tunic and long pants. It was almost always too hot for them past noontime, but after a few days, Arya had grown tired of wearing the bloody silk. She had other dresses, each of them lighter and more sheer than the last, but if she didn't feel comfortable wearing them around Dany and her handmaids, she certainly wouldn't feel comfortable riding across the formidable plains and fields of Essos. She only had the one tunic and pair of pants, though, and they were not forgiving when it came to the heat.

Arya rolled the maps and returned to the relative shade of the willow, tucking them safely in one of the leather pouches. She had taken everything out that morning to determine what was necessary and what could be left behind. One horse, already tired and hungry, couldn't carry both Arya and her provisions, as few as they were. She simply didn't want to risk it. The clothes were the heaviest things and the things she had the most of. Everything else was food and water and maps—all necessary. Some of those pretty silk dresses would have to find a better home, if anyone passed by the tree and dared look beneath its drooping leaves. She hadn't seen or heard a single person since she'd come to rest the night before. The only thing dampening the scenery was the trail of smashed grass, from where the dead horse had been dragged from beneath the branches so she could gut it. At the very least, she would have dinner that night.

She peeled her tunic and pants off, donning a dark green silk _thing_ as she slipped back into the sunlight. There was nobody around—nobody that she could see—but that didn't mean she wanted to walk naked from the tree to the water. The horse was grazing peacefully by the water's edge, occasionally lapping at the surface, and Arya was relieved to see that it seemed to be looking less on the verge of collapsing. She shed the dress and slipped into the water quickly, looking around, almost guilty, as if somebody may have seen her. But everything was still and quiet, and although it was hot, Arya was almost chilly by the time she got to the waterfall. She ducked beneath it, gasping as the cold water fell in waves around her face and shoulders. Her teeth were chattering, but it was reprieve from the hot sun, and for that, she was thankful. It was so nice and peaceful there, by that little lake, and she had all of the horse meat she could ask for. It didn't seem like a bad idea to stay another night; it would give her and her horse more time to regain their strength and patience. It would give her more time to swim around in the water.

It never occurred to Arya that perhaps there would be something else lurking in the serene waters until that something floated out to greet her from the opposite bank. It was a man, a dead one, the form of which so startled Arya at first that she nearly screamed. But when Arya realized that it was a dead man and not a hungry animal, she was calm. Dead creatures did not frighten her half so much as living ones. The body was near enough for her to reach out and touch it. It was a wonder she hadn't noticed it before, or perhaps she had and had merely taken it for a log. It was near enough, also, for her to take in the features. He looked a little like Jon but slimmer and with a beard that was fuller and peppered with white, although he couldn't have been much older than Jon would have been. He had dark, sleepless rings around closed red-rimmed eyes and lips brown with dried blood. For a moment, Arya thought that maybe it _was_ Jon. The body was even cloaked in black from head to toe, but it was a fleeting thought. It would have been nigh impossible that Jon had crossed the Narrow Sea. But perhaps it wasn't impossible. Perhaps all of the brothers of the Night's Watch had come this way. They certainly hadn't been found anywhere else. Then she saw the Baratheon sigil sewn into his jerkin and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it wasn't him. She felt a surge of fear. A Baratheon man? Why was he _here_?

But the Baratheons weren't her enemies. Robert had been her father's friend. She knew nothing of Stannis or Renly, except that one was being starved out and the other was dead; being the case, and being that Robert was also dead, she could only assume that this Baratheon man had fled some battle or duty, to the one place where he believed the horns of the stag couldn't reach him. Some arrows had, though; they had found him good and well, three in his chest.

Arya began to swim away. She wasn't afraid of dead men, but she didn't want to swim with them, either, especially while nude. There were men walking across the field, though, men with axes and swords, four of them, big and brutish, and Arya was even less willing to expose herself to them. They were more like to be enemy than friend, as Arya had yet to make a single one of those outside Daenarys, and she was of Westeros by birth and blood. The people in Essos were cruel or calculating or both. It was King's Landing if King's Landing were an entire savage continent. She would rather be in the water with a dead Baratheon.

She swam as quietly as she could until she reached the far bank and hid herself beneath a rock that jutted out dangerously over the lake. She would've been safer behind the waterfall, but she risked being seen if she swam over there. Besides, she could see them from beneath the rock—but they could see her, too, if they dared to look. There were only four of them. If she could get to her sword . . .

The biggest of them all had a bright yellow beard that hung down past his waist, and it was this man who swung his sword so violently that it nearly cleaved her horse in half. The blow was so swift and sudden that the horse made nary a sound, and Arya had to cover her mouth to prevent any from escaping her lips. How was she possibly going to navigate the never-ending fields and mountains on foot? She would never reach Braavos; she wasn't meant to.

“Where there's a saddled horse, there's a rider,” the yellow-bearded man said, his voice rough and loud and tainted by an accent that Arya couldn't place. She sank lower in the water, hoping they wouldn't see her, but as soon as the other three men joined the first one on the bank, she knew her hopes were dashed. It was as if all four of them had realized where she was at one moment, and never in her life had she felt more naked than she did in that moment, when four sets of cruel, terrible eyes found her there beneath that rock.

They all started for her at once, and Arya swam from the edge of the bank to the middle of the lake, praying that none of them could swim. If not, they would be at an impasse. If they could, her only hope then would be to get out of the lake as quickly as possible and run—naked—until she thought she was safely out of the way. The thought alone made her more uncomfortable than the concept of being dragged from the waters and chopped in half.

And dragged from the waters was what would happen, she realized, as the two smallest men—who were by no means actually small—waded into the water. They were far taller than she was, and where the water came up to her chest, the water barely reached their waists. They had more control, more strength, and didn't have anything to hide. Arya, weaponless, struggled and resisted, but they dragged her out of the water with minimal effort and threw her on top of the dead horse, where she was promptly covered in blood and entrails. Dead things didn't bother her, but laying in warm entrails was an entirely different story. She scrambled away, disgusted, her stomach turning over on itself a thousand times as she reached for the silk dress to cover herself. It was torn away from her and discarded in the grass; Arya stood up and made to run. The man with the yellow beard was upon her then, his tree-trunk arm around her chest. He forced her back to the ground so violently that her knees sunk into the soft dirt and despite all of her struggling, he was able to hold her relatively still with one hand tight on the back of her neck.

“Go check her things while I take her,” the man said, and Arya gagged at his scent, at his bulk, at all of it, her resolve to get away increasing as she heard him undoing his belt and then felt him, hard, at her entrance. She had told herself not to scream, but then he was inside her nearly completely, and Arya felt like she was splitting in two. His fingers tangled in her short hair and he wrenched her head back as he thrusted, and Arya let loose a meek, strangled cry.

The man with the beard laughed. “Cry, girl. That makes it better for us men.”

There was a throaty sound, then, and something wet sluiced across her back, and Arya would have thought that he had already finished were his body not tumbling to the ground with a gaping, red wound fresh in his throat. A man rushed past her, a curved arakh in hand. It glinted in the sunlight as he silently sliced the throats of two and dug the curve into the shoulder of the third, pulling him down on the ground. He twisted the blade so sharply that he was able to take the man's head off, and it rolled a few feet before coming to a stop.

“Get your dress on,” the man demanded, and Arya scrabbled for it, trying to hold in the vomit, trying to rid herself of the way it'd felt when he'd been inside of her. Her body was throbbing in the most egregious way. She had the dress halfway on, turning it a darker shade with all of the fresh blood, the man's and hers and the horse's, when she couldn't hold back any longer and doubled over on the ground, retching. The man's hands were at her sides and he pulled her to her feet; her leather bag was in his hand, the maps and clothes and bottles shoved hastily in.

“Come on,” the man urged, pushing her lightly across the grass. “Into the forest, girl. Where one of these men are, there are ten more, and we've stumbled across four. There will be more soon, with horses and blades and arrows. Go. Run.” Arya did not respond but stumbled lamely, finding that all of her strength and sense had failed her. “Run!” The shout dragged her from her reverie, and she blinked wildly, finding footing on the ground and breaking into a walk that was her own, not brought on by the prodding of a man. He began to run and so did she, following him, although she knew not why. Her dress stuck to her body; the sun beat down harshly; she couldn't have run more than a few yards when her sides and legs began to ache, but each step brought her closer to the treeline.

They kept running, though, even when they were inside the trees. He, nimble and driven purely by adrenaline, dodged rocks and tree branches; she, incoherent and sick, stumbled around the rocks and let the branches scratch at her face and arms and tear her dress. It felt like they had been running for hours when the man finally slowed to a stop, his breathing heavy and ragged. He dropped her pack to the ground. There was a small pool of water, barely more than a muddy puddle, but Arya dropped beside it and plunged her hands into the water, bringing them back up to her face, to rub away the dirt and grime and the burning salt of tears she hadn't known she'd been crying. She ran her wet hands across her knees, trying to scrape away the dirt and grass caked on there, and then she brought her hands between her thighs, trying to clean that man out of her body.

“Stop. Stop, stop.” The other man was kneeling beside her, pulling her hands away and holding her wrists firmly, until she stopped squirming. “I'm not going to hurt you. We're just going to rest here for a little while until we catch our breath and then we'll keep walking. There's a place we can stay not too far off.”

It was only then that Arya took him in: the gaunt, drawn face; the black pants and boots; the black tunic; the black jerkin; the Baratheon sigil. This man had been dead, lying face-up in a pool of water with three arrows in his chest. She had felt him with her own hand, felt how cold he was, had traced the sigil, had ran her fingers over the feathers in the arrows, and yet this man had not moved, had betrayed no sign of any life running through his veins. He hadn't stirred when he was sloppily shoved aside so one of those men could take his plunder. Arya had never been anyone's prize before; she had never been loot. She had never been just another woman.

“Who are you?” she whispered, pulling her knees to her chest as her back found the smooth surface of a large boulder. “You were dead in the water. I saw you.”

“What you saw was an illusion, a trick. I was shot down but not killed, so I played dead while they made off with my horses and possessions. Then, you came along not long after, so I had to play dead a little while longer.” He seemed displeased that she'd come along at all. “What's your name?”

“I asked you first.”

“Will.”

“Will _what_?”

“Just Will.” Arya sighed at this answer, resolute, and looked away from him. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Arya said. “No, I'm not okay. Couldn't you have slit his throat before he started fucking me?”

Just Will seemed perturbed by the response, but he could find no reasonable way to fault her for this line of thought. “I'm sorry. I did what I could.”

Arya knew she should have been thankful that this dead man had come to her rescue. He didn't have to gather her things, help her run along, and he certainly didn't have to take her to safety, if that _was_ where he was taking her. But then she reminded herself that he was a Baratheon man . . . of Westeros.

“Will you get me one of those dresses?” She pointed to the leather bag he'd dropped and he dug through it until he managed to untangle a blue silk dress. He tossed it her way. She peeled off the green one immediately and slipped the blue one on, not caring if he saw her breasts or not. He'd already seen a man the size of a bull take her against her will, however brief it'd been. She was sure nothing would shock him. “Robert, Stannis, or Renly?”

“I knew you weren't from around here.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “Robert, and then Renly. I never liked Stannis, and I liked the idea of him as king even less. When Renly was killed, I fled. I had no desire to join either Stannis or the Lannisters. I figured I'd come over here, where there are no kings and no wars. But there are plenty of wars, I learned.” He scrutinized her, narrowing his eyes as he looked over her slight, shaking frame. “You're not a lion, are you?”

Arya thought long and hard about this. She was reluctant to say where her loyalties really were, not just because she feared it would out her as a Stark, but because she didn't know if she could trust him. He was Robert's man, sure, and then Renly's, which was far better than him being a foot-soldier for a Lannister, but still, she was wary. She thought back to Beric Dondarrion, to Thoros of Myr, to Anguy. They had held her captive, but they had been kinder to her and Gendry and Hot Pie than anyone else had in years. They kept her as safe as they could—and they were king's men, every one of them riding for dead King Robert. “I follow the lightning lord,” Arya said.

“A king's girl, so far from home. I thought about finding them, joining them. The Brotherhood Without Banners. The funny thing—I couldn't find them.” He laughed, and Arya, despite herself, had to smile. They had hidden in the strangest places.

Had she been younger, Arya would've said the whole situation was stupid, the whole conversation, the dress she was wearing—all of it. But she wasn't younger. She was older, a woman grown, and she'd been dragged from the water and gotten her dress torn away from her and she'd been taken so violently and terribly. She was still aching between her legs and she wanted to press her hands there, as if that would make it stop, as if it would alleviate the pain, force the feeling from her flesh. Had Sansa ever had to endure that? Had her mother? Neither of them had loved their husbands upon marriage. Were they forced? Did they know? Arya felt ashamed as this Just Will stared at her, waiting for some kind of answer. He looked so very much like Jon, and tears sprang to her eyes at the thought. But tears were stupid; tears were for helpless girls, and Arya wasn't helpless. She wasn't.

“Let's keep walking,” she said. “I would rather keep walking.”

Just Will acquiesced to her demand and stood, bringing the leather bag with him. He tied it up again and helped Arya to her feet, motioning as he led the way through the forest, over beds of soft pine needles and through shallow streams no wider than a brick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who subscribes, I'm sorry that this has taken so long. I've been in a bit of a stump with where I want to go with this, and I'm still in a bit of a stump, but hopefully, I've gotten some creative juices flowing with Will's introduction, which means that updates will come out faster. We'll see how that goes.


	6. They've Found Me

In the months that Arya had been gone, Sandor had remained in the ruins of Winterfell, save for the one ride that called him to Ramsgate to put a box of bones onto a ship. He had received no other letters from her, no reason to believe that she was still alive, no reason to think that Robb's bones had been successfully received by that H'ghar. Yet still he sat.

His horse had grown strong again. Sandor had, as well. His wounds had healed and taken his weariness with them. He spent his days practicing at the sword, refining an already perfectly refined skill. He moved wooden beams and stones. He explored Winterfell's ruins, the old village outside the castle, its peaceful and relatively undisturbed godswood. He went hunting in the empty land around, where fowl and deer and wolves were in great abundance. He slept in a soot-stained featherbed in the only tower that was still fully intact. He found books there, warped from smoke but readable, and so he read. It was the peaceful life that his heart had always wanted. He hadn't killed a man in weeks, and while it was freeing, there was some part of him that was constantly anxious. It was almost too quiet in the north.

He wasn't sure what he expected. Far to the east was Karhold, where the Karstarks sat, quiet in their halls. Betrayed (from what Sandor had gathered) by Robb Stark, the Karstarks had left his cause and opted instead to search the Neck, fruitlessly, for Jaime Lannister. But as the years went on, so warped the story. Some say that wolves laid siege to them; others say Lannisters; Bloody Mummers and flayed men were popular opinions; still others say it was his own brother who had taken the lives of many a Karstark. Regardless of who'd done it, they'd lost heir after heir and had retreated to their holdfast and made not a whisper since. Sandor reckoned that if Balon Greyjoy or Roose Bolton ever came knocking, looking for a quiet piece of untouched land, they would give it up with minimal complaints.

Farther south was the Dreadfort, where Roose Bolton reigned as Warden of the North. It was the busiest place, and the Boltons were the principal house, now that Winterfell was naught but a ruin and the snow fell silently. Sandor stayed well away from it, knowing he would be spotted and picked out and flayed in an instant. Hornwood was still farther south, where Bolton's bastard sat as Lord of Hornwood, giving House Bolton an effectual reign over two prominent northern cities. Sandor knew—everybody knew—that the Boltons were merely Lannisters draped in pink, and he shuddered to think of it. 

There were other cities and houses in the north, ones that had once been great, that had been cut down, by Greyjoys, by Lannisters, by Boltons, and by wights, the otherworldly creatures that had almost, _almost_ united enemies under a common banner. But it was hard to turn the other cheek when so much wrong had been done. Manderlys and Umbers and Glovers could not easily unite with Boltons and Lannisters and Greyjoys, men who had put their kin and their King and Queen in the North to the sword and arrow. It was the division that did them in. Greater houses prevailed; but the mermen of White Harbor, once the largest city north of the Neck, no longer sang a siren's song. There were still Manderlys there, to be true, just as there were still Lockes at Oldcastle, Tallharts at Torrhen's Square, Glovers at Deepwood Motte, and the Umbers of Last Hearth (although to say they were little more than a fading light in a falling castle would almost be a lie). House Mormont was still mostly intact, on account of them being on an island, and some houses in the Neck were mostly untouched, like the Reeds of Greywater Watch and the Arryns of the Vale, on account of them being sneaky bastards. But the north had crumbled, first when Robb Stark was murdered, and then again when the Night's Watch crumbled. Left alone with under a hundred men to defend from wildlings and wights and giants and mammoths, the green, craven boys had soiled themselves, renounced their vows, and fled south, and because all of them had done so, there wasn't a soul in the north who was there to hold them accountable for the oaths they had taken, nor to prevent them from stripping the black furs from their backs. They died all the same, by someone's hands or another. There was a rumor that a few dozen had stayed at the Wall, refused to leave, but what had happened to them nobody could really say. While some people liked to say they cut down host after host, fought bravely, found themselves transformed into walking oak trees by the Old Gods to further slaughter their enemies, or other ridiculous notions of mysticism and magic, Sandor was of a mind to think that they'd been stepped on like ants, based on how many enemies came flooding through that hole in the icy wall. 

But that was, for the most part, over. The north had given one last battle cry, as scattered as they were. Boltons and Lannisters burnt wights and slaughtered wildlings, leaving scores of ash and bodies stretching from the Broken Branch to Castle Cerwyn, while Martells and Tyrells and what was left of Houses Frey and Tully (even less than that of House Umber) attacked at the Neck and prevented few enemies from raging farther south. Umbers and Glovers and Tallharts and Lockes had, with the help of Mormonts, driven scores of enemies into Ironman's Bay, where Greyjoy and Mallister ships were waiting with flaming arrows. Reeds and Arryns remained, expectedly, silent. But any alliances made were, for the most part, brief and bitter. The north was torn apart by battle after battle, by fallen kings and betrayals, and the walls of Winterfell wept the loudest, her story the saddest. Perhaps songs had been written about the dead Starks, but it was more like that they had been lost to history. There were only be songs written about the Lannisters and their allies, now.

There was not much that one man could do by way of cleaning and rebuilding a castle, but weeks of solitude and boredom had caused Sandor Clegane to clear out a good third of the rooms around the untouched tower in which he slept. He used an old axe to chop up the wooden beams and broken furniture and kept a fire roaring in the hearth, while he stacked stones up against crumbling walls. They were fortification from ghosts and winds.

The day had not been any different from any others when the ground began to rumble. It was a slow and soft one; if the north had been less of a quiet, vacant countryside, it would not have felt out of place, but Sandor had scarce seen another living person, let alone felt the ground shake with the impending arrival of hundreds of horses. He led his horse back behind a tall stone wall and retreated into the depths of Winterfell, up to the top of his tower, hoping that these riders would pass him by. The anxious feeling that had been twisting in the pit of his stomach was finally like to burst.

The banners were crimson and gold, Lannister colors, and the Lannister lion proclaimed itself as loudly as the horses drew nearer, in a never-ending line that stretched down the road. _They've found me,_ Sandor thought, but they wouldn't send hundreds of good Lannister men just for him. No, this was something else entirely, and as he made his way back down the stone steps and through chilly hallways, keeping to the shadows as he moved, he saw what that something else was.

Sansa Stark, looking queenly and regal, was standing in the center of the courtyard, surveying the dusty, ashy, ruined damage of her home. The shock of seeing her after so many years nearly took Sandor to his knees, but with all of the Lannister men surrounding her, he dared not approach. And he dared not stay. How he was to get out, he was unsure. He was trapped, a strange feeling that had disturbed his personal sense of peace and quiet. Sansa was coming towards him, then, towards the tall, stone steps behind him, no doubt to survey the inside of her castle. Men moved to go with her, but she waved her hand to send them away.

“There's no one here,” she reminded them, “and I don't need your help seeing what I can with my own eyes.”

Tyrion Lannister stayed behind with his men, examining the damage done to the outside of the castle and the village, talking in voices too far off for Sandor to hear. Sansa didn't look happy, nor did she look particularly fragile and abused. The thought that the Lannisters were actually treating her well came as both a relief and a horror. Sandor slipped up the staircase, lithely and gently for a man of his stature and size. Revealing himself was a risk. The girl could've been more lion than wolf, now, and then she would have his head, but she didn't seem surprised when she saw him lingering midway down the hallway, in slow flight.

“I wasn't sure who I would find here,” she said. Her gaze had changed. She no longer cowered near him, and she looked resolutely into his eyes, at his face, once she was close enough to do so. Sandor saw at once: she was no lion, but a she-wolf grown fierce in the dens of them. “Lord Varys still hears his whispers, although there's not much news, not anymore. We're busy in the south, you see, fighting skirmishes with Stannis Baratheon, if they could be called that. The man so desperately wants his throne; it seems he'll stop at nothing, even if time itself has told him to lay down the few swords he has left. Granted, he should be on that throne. There's a man I would kneel to.” Her eyes burned fiercely as she spoke, and the ghost of a smile twisted across her lips.

“I see you've learned to play at politics,” Sandor said, gruffly.

“And I see you've learned to play with ghosts,” Sansa said. “I, however, had no choice in the matter. Marriage forced me to sprout claws of an entirely different sort, to carry a banner I would rather have burned. Lannisters—manipulative, ruthless, all of them. I'm drinking their poison slowly and with a smile, but I'm still drinking it, I fear. I've learned to play their game because I want to keep my head, and because it's my duty to my lord husband.”

“You Starks never know when to leave your duty at the door.”

Sansa hummed her approval. “Duty kills, and duty saves. I can lie and deceive as easily as any lion, and better. They think I have no ears and no eyes; they think I do not speak in whispers; they think I cannot plan or begin to understand maps and military movements, but that's because they're fools. Blind fools, at that. I do have ears, and I do have eyes.” She smiled again, bigger this time, with teeth, and her eyes glinted. Once, he would have found it sweet; now it just seemed malicious and half-mad, whether with grief or the lust for revenge or the exhaustion of survival, Sandor couldn't have said. She was so familiar, and yet so foreign. She was the same girl, and yet she was different. She was older, at the very least, and wiser. “I've known for far too long that somebody was here. Lord Varys told me that some northern smallfolk were convinced my brother's ghost had returned to reclaim his crown and his throne. 'Fires in the hearth at Winterfell,' he told me. I thought perhaps it was Jon or Arya, but then I thought, no—Jon or Arya would have gone to Riverrun, to an Umber or a Glover. As you said, we never know when to leave our duty at the door, and there has been so much wolf blood spilled and too few people held accountable.”

“The Freys lie dusty and dead in their halls,” Sandor said. “What more could you want?”

“I want Roose Bolton's head on a plate, and I want Joffrey and Tywin Lannister to hang from the rafters of their hall.”

What had happened to the sweet little dove that Sandor once knew? The girl he had tried to save, to take home? No doubt she had spent too long in King's Landing, under the oppressive thumbs of Cersei and Tywin Lannister, suffering the japes and tortures of the boy king. She may well have been married to the Imp, but he was as unloved by the Lannisters as would be a Stark. The marriage was one of convenience and title; Sandor knew that as well as many men with half a brain. She may have been a Lannister in name, but the girl was still a Stark at heart, and she had been held hostage for too long in a castle filled with the very people who had murdered her entire family. He understood and would have fought by her side had she asked, but to hear her speak so candidly threw him, and he knew it was obvious by the look on his face.

“I'm here for you, under the pretense that I want to rebuild Winterfell. That will get done, too, I assure you, hence the three thousand in my accompaniment. Two thousand soldiers and a thousand farmers, builders, architects, smiths, bakers, cooks, and handmaids from the south. None of these people have northern blood in their veins, do you know? It's me, and only me. I am the last wolf, and I at least want my home to be standing long after there are no more wolves to be found.”

“Not the last wolf,” Sandor said, quietly. “Arya lives.” Sansa's eyes grew wide. She was shocked into silence. Her lips parted and closed and opened again, but no sound came out. The absence of any northern stirrings in the name of the fallen Starks had given her enough reason to believe that her family was dead. _Father was beheaded by King Joffrey. Mother and Robb were murdered by Tywin Lannister, Roose Bolton, and Walder Frey. Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy, Jon probably stayed at the stupid wall to defend the seven kingdoms from those undead creatures, and Arya is like to be rotting in a ditch somewhere and has been for years._ That was the exact speech she had given her husband on the first night that she realized she was alone; she had recited that speech several times since, but only in her head. She had not forgotten it, and neither had Tyrion. 

“Arya lives,” Sandor repeated. “Not four months past, I sent her across to the Free Cities and received word from her.” He paused, not sure of how much he could really tell Sansa, not sure how much she would understand. He didn't even know how much he understood of Arya's plans. She had declined to explain. But Sansa had been so blunt with him in her desire to see Tywin Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon with nooses tight around their bruising necks, so he could offer her the same hard truths. “She fell in with Daenerys Targaryen, from what I understand. I haven't heard from her since, but I have no doubt she's being treated well, and I imagine her counsel is being well-heeded.”

Sansa hummed again, in apprehension this time. “The Targaryen girl. Much has been said about her, but there are too few actions on her part. We've expected her to cross the sea for so long that the fright of its potential is a flame that has long since burnt out. She amasses her slave army on the other side, but she doesn't have the ships for all of her men. She's spent years sacking cities so that she can retake her throne, and for what? For Tywin Lannister to sweat for a fortnight and then laugh at any mention of her? There was a day that I prayed to see her ships on the Narrow Sea, to see her soldiers ramming down the gates. I would still give anything to see anyone, _anyone_ , else on that throne. Anyone but Joffrey. But she has waited too long and the fear is gone from us, and the hope.”

“They say she has dragons,” Sandor said meekly.

“I'll believe it when I see it, but I have no time to put my faith in hearsay. When she finally gets her ships and comes sailing to King's Landing, I'll believe that she's serious. Until then, Tywin Lannister may be right in this thing. She's just a girl, unseasoned in battle and poor with politics.”

Sandor could not attest to how wrong she was. Arya had said very little in her letter, focused more on ensuring Robb's bones be found and delivered to Braavos, nor had he kept up with the politics of the day while holed up in Winterfell, although he couldn't imagine that they had changed too much with so many of the once-great houses decimated and laid in ruin. The Lannisters ruled the kingdoms as far as the Shivering Sea was wide, and that was not like to change unless the Targaryen bitch did come sailing across the Narrow Sea with her dragons and her slave army. However underwhelming, that had not happened.

“Perhaps it's for the better,” Sansa said, after a silence. “The realm doesn't need more war. The land has gotten its fill of blood, and we're all so tired.”

Sandor suddenly felt impatient. Was she speaking in riddles now? Or was she simply speaking her heart's truths that had not found ears or had fallen on deaf ones? “You said you were here for me. Why?”

“The Lannisters believe you dead.”

“You wish me an assassin?”

“No. I want you to find out what happened to the men of the Night's Watch, the ones who stayed behind to fight at the Wall.”

“They died,” Sandor said, bluntly. “That's what happened to them. They died, and it's likely they became wights and them someone else came in and burnt them all up.” He fell silent for a few moments. “Your sister believed that Jon was alive, too. She said she could sense him in dreams, but she said the same things about your youngest brothers, and there were witnesses to them being strung up and burnt by Theon Greyjoy. We went up to the Wall to see what we could find. Naught but dead bodies and a stifling, thick emptiness. It's a goose chase.”

“Then chase geese.”

“I'm not yours to command. There are a thousand other abandoned holdfasts around here and nobody would bother me.”

“But now I've seen your face,” Sansa said. “Now I know you're alive, and all it will take is one scream and a hundred Lannister men will fall upon you before you can find a place to hide. Do you think you'll get out of here alive, undetected? You're between a rock and a hard place, and _I_ am both of those things.” _She has become a lion,_ Sandor thought. His mouth was a thin, hard line as she spoke. “For too long, I have spent sleepless nights dreaming of the day that I could ride north, looking for some flicker of hope, and I've found it. Did I know who was here? No, not for sure, but I knew that no one would risk coming back to Winterfell unless they knew its tale well. You tell me that Arya isn't dead, and that candle of hope burns brighter. I can't believe that Jon is dead. I can't. I haven't seen his body; I have no news of his death.”

“And you won't believe it until you see it,” Sandor finished, voice flat and dull. “Fine. I'll go searching for the bastard, but don't be surprised when I turn up with empty hands. How do you propose I leave here? Shall I scale the wall and shimmy down the other side?”

But Sansa had other plans. She threw a hooded cloak over the man, black and grey, with the sigil of the direwolf, and led him out into the courtyard. Her men did not like the fact that there had been someone within the walls, after all, but she soothed them with a serpentine tongue and her calm words.

“The old Keeper of Winterfell managed to escape the Greyjoy grasp and has spent years tending to what's left of the castle. We're going to pay our respects to my family. I pray that you do not disturb us, sers, and continue planning on how to restore this place to its former glory. And I want no Lannister flags flying here. I don't care how you do it, if you have to send men to Hornwood and have an old crone stitch flags for me, I'll be flying the silvers of my house sigil, and until we can mount direwolves on those walls, they'll stay bare. If I so much as see a Lannister banner hanging, I'll smother you with it. This place is not yours.”

Her ability to command was astounding, and although it seemed that the men were used to it, their eyes still widened in surprise and they hastened to bow and agree. Tyrion seemed merely amused by the charade, having seen through it immediately. _Keeper of Winterfell,_ he thought to himself. _She's always been a clever girl. If I hadn't known such a thing didn't exist, I would've eaten that lie up just as all the others are._ Uninvited, he followed his lady wife and the mysterious Keeper down into the crypts of Winterfell, where naught greeted them but gloom and damp stone. He was marginally surprised when the Hound drew back the hood.

“So Joffrey's dog lives, after all. I knew the rumors of your death were too fortunate to be truth.”

“My sister lives, as well,” Sansa said, and even though their only light was a solitary torch, he could see the beacon of hope flare up within her. “He agreed to search for Jon.”

Tyrion had, as quietly as he could, sent some of his own men searching for Jon. Varys had come up with nothing, and Bronn had come up with even less. He trusted nobody else, and the thought of sending this burnt and bitter ghost of a man out searching for Ned Stark's bastard didn't sit well with him.

He tried to put it as lightly as he could. “My lady, I do believe that you need to let Jon rest, wherever his grave may be.”

“I will, when his grave is found.”

Tyrion sighed in impatience and met Sandor's even gaze, which was just as frustrated and impatient. “This is folly. Sandor Clegane could not tell Jon's bones from any of the thousands that linger the ground from here to the Wall. I guarantee, the boy did not survive the war. It pains me to say it, but you cannot go running around on a whim because you felt a shift in the wind and a change in the temperature.”

Sansa brandished the torch threateningly. “Do _not_ take this away from me, Tyrion.”

Sandor shifted uncomfortably. The crypts were making him nervous enough; he had avoided them since his arrival, partially because he knew not where to find them and partially because he was sure that none of the old Stark lords would appreciate his coming to pay homage and respect. Now he was stuck in the crypt and in the midst of a lovers' spat, all because Sansa—hardheaded, stubborn, entirely different Sansa—was determined to find a bastard brother that he'd never known she cared for. Her icy courtesy was truly her armor, and she wore it well. But she had more than courtesy-armor now. She had sharp words, a broken heart, and a yearning for revenge. He shivered in spite of himself. She was a force to be reckoned with, and Tyrion took a step back, away from the flame. Absentmindedly, Sandor did, too. Fire made him uneasy as it were; Sansa with fire was somehow worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The updates are coming slowly, and for that I apologize. They should be coming more quickly, now that I've sorted out some of the history in my head. Things are getting a bit jumbled, but bear with me. There won't be much more boggy filler-history after this. Let's take a moment to mourn the poor, sad northern lords.


End file.
